


Compromises

by emblazonet



Category: Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, Multi, Political Intrigue, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:36:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emblazonet/pseuds/emblazonet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herald Esmelle has uncovered disturbing news while on circuit. Rethwellan is encroaching on Valdemaran lands. Back in Haven, it's only a matter of time before she's sent out to deal with the problem on the border—up the mountains in the middle of winter! And, unfortunately for Esmelle, she's getting partnered up with a Herald-Mage holding a grudge against her: Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron. And that's not to mention Savil's complete lack of skill at negotiating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromises

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story to address the things I found disappointing in Mercedes Lackey's writing: namely, the political aspect of your average working Herald is never detailed enough for my taste, there isn't much in the way of interesting physical description, and all the (protagonist) characters seem to be part of a hivemind. I don't know if I remedied any of this, but that's what I had in mind.
> 
> Additionally, there is a discrepancy in the canon with regards to the gender of Savil's Companion Kellan. In LHM, Kellan is female. In Sword of Ice, Kellan is male. On her FAQ, Mercedes Lackey writes about Kellan, 'How the hell am I supposed to keep track of all these minor characters????????' Which is rather unhelpful. Since Sword of Ice is not a particularly well-written story, and is much shorter, I went with the LHM canon of Kellan being female.
> 
> Edit: The story takes place in the year 755 AF. For reference, Magic's Pawn starts in 806 AF.

Esmelle sighed and leaned back. Her vision was a haze of candlelight and shadow, watered by tears: eyestrain. When had it grown so dark? She rubbed her eyes and gazed bemusedly out the window in front of her. Above the roofs of the palace, wisps of cloud seemed to bridge the stars. The bright Hounds had already set, meaning it was midnight or later. She picked out the brightest of the visible constellations, the Hunter's Bow, but there was too much light from palace windows and from the city itself to see much in the way of stars. If she were out riding circuit—but she wasn't. She was here in the Heralds' library, finishing her circuit report and catching up on the news.

            : _Have you considered bed yet?:_ Miravia's mindvoice was tinged with cozy exhaustion.

            Esmelle looked back down at the paper-strewn desk. The inkpot had inched close to the edge again. She moved it towards the centre. : _I'm almost done my report. Just need to fill in the last bit, about what the mayor of Shiverbrook said about Rethwellan. That won't take but a paragraph.:_

            _:You work too hard. It's been a rough winter, and you should get some rest._ :

            Esmelle laughed. The sound of her voice startled her as the library was otherwise empty. Aloud, she said "You're one to talk."

            She dipped her quill in the ink and set nib to paper. Her handwriting had grown steadily worse as she'd gone on. This was the fifth page of her final report, and she took in a deep breath, trying to steady her hand.

            _Evan Tapp, Mayer of Shiverbrook, says there have been border disputes with Rethwellan this winter. A lord demanded taxes from the south-western towns of Covey and Bell's Valley, though they are supposed to be within the Valdemar border. When the towns refused, the lord brought in his militia and extorted them. Mayor Tapp claims too much was taken, describing the tax levied as 'highway robbery' and insisting that 'families might well starve' under the burden of dual taxation. No one knows who the lord is, but they say his surname is Jadrevalyn. Unfortunately, the Comb is all but impassable at this time of year, and I was not able to visit Covey and Bell's Valley. Road repairs will be necessary on those roads leading to Bakerston, Covey and Bell's Valley._

            Esmelle almost slumped down into the glistening report—and a fine sight she'd be the next morning, with ink letters smudged into her cheek! She stood and groaned as her body bent into a big stretch. All her muscles ached. She'd just come into Haven that afternoon, after a hard three days' ride. Miravia had heard a blizzard was coming to the last town on their circuit—Tindale—and they'd ridden hard to make it back before they were snowed in. The border dispute in Rethwellan was too important for delays: Jadrevalyn was the name of the royal family of Rethwellan.

            _:I hope it won't come to war,:_ Esmelle said to Miravia, as she shovelled the papers back into the battered leather case. The report was left out. She was going to deliver that to the Seneschal's Herald, Ysmir, right away.

            _:Oh, I doubt it. Even if Elspeth's marriage with Iftel makes them nervy, even then, they wouldn't risk it.:_ Miravia's reply sounded as if it were swaddled in cotton. She was drifting to sleep, and Esmelle yawned in sympathy.

            Right then, thought Esmelle. There'd be no more sense out of her Companion tonight, and it was best to get as much sleep as possible.

***

"We need a new building," said Ysmir, the Seneschal's Herald, the following morning. Thin, watery shafts of light prodded through the slitted windows of the palace hallway. This hallway was empty, for a wonder: they were just at the turn to the Herald's Wing, which was noisy and cramped. It was the oldest part of the palace.

            "A whole building?" asked Esmelle.

            "It would cut into Companion's Field some, but there's room for expansion," said Ysmir, a brown-haired brown-skinned man, with a fine-boned face full of wrinkles. His bushy eyebrows and thin beard had gone to silver while his head hair was barely threaded with it. He was pushing fifty, and he had been Herald Tanya's lover. Tanya, Esmelle's mentor, had been killed on duty only five years ago. Since then, Esmelle and Ysmir had become friends, and then very close friends. The friendship didn't fill the aching holes that Esmelle felt inside of her whenever she thought of Tanya, but it helped.

            "You sound like it's a sure thing," said Esmelle with a laugh.        

            "It just might be," said Ysmir with a grin much brighter than the winter-weak sun. "The motion's being discussed in council this morning."

            Esmelle almost dropped the sheaf of paperwork she carried. "Really?" She was so incredibly tired of sharing her room with three other people that often she felt she would scream. That was why she wrote all her reports in the library.

            "Well, between Lancir and I, we managed to burn Elspeth's ear. There isn't much to occupy the council's time in the winter anyway."

            Esmelle sighed. "I take it you haven't read my circuit report?"

            Ysmir quirked one fuzzy eyebrow. "I have not, but perhaps that was a mistake on my part. I was putting it off since I had assumed there was nothing urgent."

            "Not _urgent_ ," Esmelle said, "or else Miravia would have contacted your Aran. But important. Elspeth and the council should see it. Tomorrow," she added hastily as Ysmir's expression clouded and he looked over his shoulder in the direction of the council chamber. "It certainly doesn't have to be right now."

            _:Aran is just telling Taver there's something that needs discussing:_ Miravia sent.

            Quickly and concisely, Esmelle laid out the taxation troubles of the south-western border.

            "The Comb's impassable right now?" Ysmir asked. They reached the end of the Herald's Wing and pushed open into the white courtyard. The wind puffed sparkles into their faces: as they had spoken the sun had come out, and the full brightness of the day made them wince. Beyond the Terilee River, a few Herald trainees rode their Companions, and it was like they rode the snow itself.

            "All the passes are snowed in," Esmelle said. "The only creatures getting through are experienced woodspeople and rescue dogs."

            "If chirras were brought?"

            "From the north? They might be able to cross." Esmelle shrugged. "Miravia told me she wasn't willing to risk our necks. Especially alone. It's a cold death."

            Ysmir shook his head. "If what Mayor Tapp says isn't exaggeration, then we will need to verify from the towns' heads or mayors, and send a relief effort. I'll have the Herald-Mages look into it, then. They can scry perhaps. Perhaps those towns have a mage or mindspeaker?"

            "I couldn't tell you," said Esmelle. "Though two years before, there were no mindspeakers or mages there. But a lot can change."

            "That is true. Here we are, the temple. Thank you for walking me this far, Esmelle."

            Esmelle smiled at Ysmir as she handed his sheaf of papers back to him. He was working on a project related to King Valdemar's time, researching the roots of Heraldic tradition. It was not a personal project; it had been commanded by Elspeth.

            _:Ride with me, love?:_ Snow sheeted up as Miravia hurtled out of sun and snow and stopped abruptly. She shook her mane and glittery snow shone all around her.

            Esmelle's heart thudded wildly. "You startled me!" she chided. Esmelle thought Miravia was the finest of all the Companions, for Miravia was one of the biggest. She was tall and well-muscled and strong. Miravia laughed aloud: to a non-Herald, it would have sounded like a quiet whinny, but Esmelle knew it for laughter. In a few moments, Esmelle settled into the saddle, and Miravia briskly trotted through the snow.

            "You seem well-rested," Esmelle said.

            _:I am. Cheer up. Exercise will wake you.:_

            "Tea would work just as well," Esmelle grumbled.

            _:When the Armsmaster tries you tomorrow morning, you'll thank me.:_

            They rode for about half a candlemark in the brightness. Esmelle closed her eyes and leaned forward so that Miravia's mane whipped her face. These were moments she cherished, when she and Miravia galloped for the fun of it, the snow muffling hoof chimes, the wind biting and slapping at skin. They kept to an easy run, above the banks of the Terilee, where some brave bundled souls skated. Miravia and Esmelle ran over the bridge, into the rolling expanse of field, then looping back down through the pine grove and past the Temple. Easy and simple, together and whole, unbroken and young and alive: no Herald could ever take these moments for granted.

With reluctance Esmelle told Miravia that she had to grab lunch and meet with the Herald from the next circuit-sector over, who had arrived two days previous. "I love you," Esmelle said, pressing her forehead to Miravia's nose. They stood by the doors to the Herald's wing. Miravia blew gentle warm air on Esmelle's cold nose. _:And I you, Chosen. Always.:_

            Esmelle opened the door to step, squinting, into the dark hallway—and tripped. She sprawled forward, trying to regain her balance, and realized there was a big tapestry-bag beneath her feet which prevented her from catching herself. She smacked the ground, taking her weight on her forearms, and rolled to her feet as quickly as she could extricate from the tapestry-bag.

            "Lady Bright! I am so, so very sorry!" The voice was light, male, and young.

            Esmelle blinked up at the shadowy stranger, dazed, as a strong arm hauled her to her feet. After a moment the sun-dazzle faded from her vision, and she saw a tall, lithe young man with a shock of red hair that dipped over his freckled face. He wore rumpled healer's greens, surprisingly creased and askew, as if he'd only just dragged them on.

            "That's all right," said Esmelle. "I should've looked down."

            "It's only I'm trying to move—all of this—" the man scooped up another green robe into his arm and fumbled for the handle of the tapestry-bag. "I was, ah, I just woke up, terribly sorry, Herald, er?"

            "Esmelle," she said, amused. She'd seen his stockings as he bent: one was red and the other grey, and they were rumpled too. It seemed clear that he'd had an unexpected sleepover somewhere in the palace. Staying up with a patient? she wondered. Or sleeping with a lover? From his blushes and awkwardness, she'd guess a lover.

            "Andrel, begging your pardon, Herald Esmelle."

            "Pardon given, Healer Andrel."

            She watched in bemusement as he tried to leave, only to realize he wore no boots, only stockings. He was pulling his boots from his bag as Esmelle turned the corridor, heading for the nearest staircase. She shook her head and chuckled.

***

For the next four days, Esmelle reacquainted herself to life at the palace. She missed the privacy of being on circuit—she'd had waystations to herself, and was continually disturbed now by her roommates entering and leaving at unpredictable times. Even more new Heralds had been Chosen over the past year, and only Elspeth and the Queen's Own, Lancir, had rooms of their own. Even Ysmir was sharing his room. She spent much of her time in the library or visiting her family in town, or browsing Haven's market-stalls, picking up Midwinter trinkets for her family and friends.

            With Midwinter three days away, the Heralds decided to have a revel to themselves and select guests. Esmelle arrived at the Companions' barn at sunset, wearing a red dress over mahogany leggings, enjoying the feel of silk on her skin instead of the coarser leather whites.

 _:Oh, hurry in!:_ Miravia called. _:The music is wonderful. I'm dancing with Rolan!:_

_:Dancing?:_

            Esmelle soon saw what Miravia meant. The hayloft was over the stalls, and overlooked some of the indoor riding arena. In the loft, human musicians played a lively jig on gittern and drums and fiddle; in the arena, Companions pranced beside each other, in circles or in pairs. Miravia trotted in a circle, shoulder-to-shoulder facing Rolan, giving little kicks with her hind feet in time to the music. Rolan tossed his mane, his muscles rippling. They were of a size, big and strong and graceful.

            : _Rolan. Dancing. With_ _me!:_ Miravia sent giddily.

            _:Just don't get with foal,:_ Esmelle teased, _:We're probably going to have to go deal with that south-western corner.:_

 _:That's none of your concern:_ Miravia mock-snapped, a bell-like tone of amusement in her mindvoice.

            _:Have fun then.:_

At the ladder up to the hayloft, Esmelle found her way blocked by the red-headed healer whose bag she'd tripped over. "Healer Andrel!"

            The redhead blushed. "You remembered my name." Above him was a stern-looking Herald in whites, someone Esmelle didn't know, with a nose like an axe, and black hair braided around her head. She raised an eyebrow at Esmelle.

            Esmelle stepped aside so Andrel could get off the ladder. "But do you remember mine?"

            "Herald Esmelle!" Andrel grinned. "I was having a kind of unforgettable morning." He looked at the Herald, now beside him. "Anyway," he said, "I'm sure you know Savil?"

            "We've never met," said the woman in a flat, unfriendly tone. She held out her hand and Esmelle shook it warily. Did the woman dislike her, or was she simply socially awkward? Esmelle struggled not to feel hurt: after all, there were many reasons for momentary rudeness, none of which had anything to do with Esmelle directly. The woman continued, "I'm Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron."

            Oh. A Herald-Mage. That was probably why Esmelle didn't know her: she rarely spent time with Herald-Mages. They outranked her to begin with, and anyway they did all kinds of things regular Heralds didn't do. And wasn't Ashkevron a noble name? Only noble-born Heralds held onto to their surnames enough to mention them in casual conversation.

            Andrel said, "I'm just escorting Savil out. But maybe I could give you a dance, to make up for tripping you?"

            Esmelle smiled. "Acceptable!"

            She found she liked Andrel. Over the night he danced the most dances with her, up in the hayloft, kicking straw and dust up, dodging other dancers. She couldn't sing well and neither did he, but they listened to the music and drunk cider and discussed books. They had a favourite poet in common, Ladine who hailed from Lake Evendim, and besides that, they shared a sense of humour. His eyes were warm and brown, and his smile was generous and broad.

            Midnight found them staggering to his rooms in Healer's Collegium, arms tight around each other, holding a bottle of cider and two clay cups. Another drink, and Andrel was pushing her tunic up, his broad hands running over her belly and breasts, and she sighed, closed her eyes, and sank down into his bed.

            Healers, thought Esmelle afterward, lying sated and cuddled in Andrel's arms, make the best lovers. All that anatomical knowledge, and an urge to please...

***

_:ESMELLE!:_

            The mind-shout brought Esmelle to full awareness almost instantly. _:What's wrong, Miravia?!:_

            : _Ysmir and Lancir want to see you, right now. Actually, five minutes ago. It's late, love, half-past ten, and you're not in your room. Which I didn't even know until you woke up. Where are you?:_

_:Healers' Collegium. All right. But I'm not in my whites.:_

            As Esmelle pulled last night's clothes on, Miravia was silent. Then she said, _:Ysmir says that's fine. Come quickly. I'm at the door to Healers', I'll get you there faster.:_

            "Wha? You're leaving?" Andrel complained sleepily.

            Esmelle bent over and kissed his forehead. "You were great, and I'd love to stay, but my Companion says the Seneschal's Herald needs me right now."

            "You Heralds," mumbled Andrel, "and your godsforsaken duty."

            "We'll see each other again soon," Esmelle promised, kissed him lingeringly on the lips, and fled.

            With Miravia's speed, she was in Ysmir's office in ten minutes, panting as she rushed in the door, face flushed from exertion and the morning cold. The three Heralds turned to face her: Lancir with his soft, kind face; Ysmir, looking horribly chipper and holding a steaming mug of tea; and, to Esmelle's surprise, Herald-Mage Savil, impeccable and military-straight in her whites. Her hair was bound in a simple ponytail and she held Esmelle's circuit report in her hand. When Esmelle entered, Savil looked down her immense nose, her lip curling very slightly as she took in Esmelle's rumpled party attire.

            Esmelle, for her part, blushed and looked away from Savil, feeling small and shabby and unprofessional. She twisted her hands behind her back, as she used to do at Bardic Collegium when she'd been caught passing a note or forgetting her homework—rare occurrences, and the more embarrassing for it.

            Ysmir smiled at her. "Herald Esmelle, this is Herald-Mage Savil—"

            "We've met," said Savil briskly.

            Ysmir blinked and sipped his tea.

            Lancir said, "We discussed the south-western corner situation at this morning's council meeting. Queen Elspeth strongly wishes to maintain peaceful relations with Rethwellan, but she is not willing to allow her people to suffer, if that is the case. So: Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron has been empowered as an ambassador from Elspeth to this Jadrevalyn, and will be given all necessary documentation to prove herself as such. Ashkevron is an old, noble family, so that will satisfy Rethwellan protocol. You, Esmelle, are to go with her, because that is your sector and you have the latest knowledge. You also have some skill at rhetoric, I understand, which will help negotiations. Chirras and necessary supplies will be waiting for you: you'll leave the day after Midwinter. I'm sorry, as you'll have so little time to prepare, but we need this to be sorted out immediately."

            "As you know," Ysmir added, "Elspeth's marriage to Consort Alek has made Rethwellan nervous. This is vitally important."

            "Understood," said Savil. "It will be accomplished." Every word she spoke was precise and clipped, though her accent had the slightest hint of a west-border drawl.

            Esmelle nodded, feeling tired. Her head hurt—too much cider, maybe, or the swiftness of her awakening. _:I hope you haven't shed your winter coat yet, dear:_ she said to Miravia, _:we're going back into the thick of it.:_ Her only reply was a deep mental sigh: Miravia had also hoped for a longer vacation.

***

Midwinter was over faster than a blink. Esmelle saw her family for one night of brightly-lit splendour: candles thickly clustered in her family's Haven townhouse strewn with garlands and draped in red and gold. Children served food on platters and snuck snacks for themselves—begrudged only by an aging aunt of 87 years who had nothing better in life to do but bemoan the young. Esmelle's parents were in good health, her sister and brothers prospering as they took on the Arkwright family business (largely selling cabinetry and wooden artisanal items), and for an candlemark or so her old friends from Bardic Collegium stopped by, and the ones who were bards or minstrels even gave a short performance, to everyone's delight.

            The next morning found Esmelle shivering in the pre-dawn gloom outside the Companions' stable. Miravia fidgeted, pawing at the ground or shaking her mane. Savil's Companion, Kellan, looked a bit calmer, but was eyeing the chirras. There were two chirras: one dark with white furry streaks, named Northward; and the other, named Damask, was tan, cream and white. Both had large soulful brown eyes. Esmelle knew them as northerly animals, but in the southern alpine regions like the Comb in winter, they were invaluable and not uncommon.

            Savil turned the corner around the stable. Esmelle blinked in surprise: she was deep in conversation with Andrel. Well, they were friends, Esmelle reminded herself. But surely it was very deep friendship to see someone off before dawn on the morning after Midwinter?

            Esmelle swung up onto Miravia, settling herself comfortably in the saddle. She checked all the fastenings she could easily see, pretending not to look as Andrel embraced Savil. But when Savil gripped Andrel's face and kissed him full on the lips, Esmelle found herself staring, one hand on the strap that held her short-sword to the saddle.

            Andrel broke away, flushing crimson. He waved up at Esmelle with an embarrassed smile. She felt guilty: she hadn't been able to see him since the morning she'd woken from his bed. Andrel said, "Safe journey, Esmelle. Good luck!"

            "Joy of Midwinter," Esmelle said, added while Savil mounted Kellan, "I hope I'll see you on my return."

            Savil glared at her, and Kellan moved into a trot. The chirras immediately followed. Andrel shrugged up at Esmelle, and Esmelle, confused and feeling rather too tired to follow the intricacies of whatever was going on between them, waved half-heartedly as Miravia set off after Kellan.

            The first leg of the journey was quiet, not only with awkwardness, but with the soft padded intimacy of a fresh snowfall. Haven lay quiet, its streets all but deserted. Midwinter decorations, pine boughs and sturdy ribbons and wooden designs, hung over doors and windows, and every sloped roof was steeped in a second roof of thick snow. By the time they had wound their way down to the outer ring of walls, Esmelle was warmed up and even Miravia had woken up enough to prance a little, kicking up the snow in glimmering puffs. Ahead of them, Kellan turned her neck around to watch them—though Savil never did—and whipped her tail in amusement.

            _:Do you know Kellan?:_ Esmelle asked as the sleepy-eyed guards in blue waved them through the last gate and out onto the South Trade Road.

            Miravia twitched her ear back as if Esmelle had spoken aloud. She always did that, to let Esmelle know she'd heard her, and it was something that always made Esmelle feel warm and appreciated. _:Vaguely. We've never actually spent any time together. Although... I suppose we must have played as foals together.:_            

            _:And what about Savil?:_

            Miravia sent the wavy-blue overtone of a mental shrug. _:She's a Herald-Mage, one of the strongest. I suppose you'll have to learn about her in the old-fashioned way.:_

Esmelle eyed Savil's ram-rod straight back, her tightly bound hair, remembered the cold shoulder she'd given Esmelle since they'd met. The chirras were tied to her saddle, and she had naturally assumed the lead. _:I guess she and Andy were lovers. And I suppose she's jealous of me. Andy didn't say anything, and he was courting me plainly, so it seems he doesn't think Savil's got a claim on him. Ugh. If she'd just talk to me, we could clear this up. Otherwise this will turn into a farce straight from a bard's song!:_

Miravia bobbed her head. _:Well, don't react to her stiffness. You'll have to work as partners, and if she's going to be immature, the worst thing you can do is feed the fire.:_

Esmelle sighed and absentmindedly scratched Miravia's neck in the parts she knew were the itchiest. Coarse winter hairs fell away from her hand like another snowfall. _:I'll do my best,:_ she promised.

***

By the time they reached their first waystation, the snow had stopped. The sun was setting, casting red and orange rays over the quiet fields, lengthening the shadows of the occasional stand of trees. The waystation was one Esmelle used frequently, tucked away between an orchard and a wheat field, shaded by a cluster of oaks. Its sloping snow-roof was rimmed in icicles.

            Savil swung off Kellan with a crisp military grace that Esmelle admired. "I'll tend to the firewood. You take care of the chirras," she ordered as she began to unbuckle Kellan's tack. Kellan's tail snapped through the air, and Miravia snorted in disapproval at Savil's rude tone.

            Esmelle carefully dismounted. The snow came up to her knee, though she stood in the path. Around her the snowbanks were head-height. The path must have been shovelled that week, but it certainly needed more cleaning.

            Savil's shoulders relaxed a fraction as Esmelle turned to look at her. "Kellan tells me I shouldn't simply give orders," she said awkwardly. "My apologies. Will you tend the chirras if I gather firewood?"

            Esmelle smiled at Savil, though she really wanted to snap at her instead. "That is fine," she said, just as awkwardly.

            The stable beside the waystation was just big enough to comfortably house the two Companions and the chirras. Savil and Esmelle brushed down Kellan and Miravia, and then Savil went to gather the firewood and set up the inside, while Esmelle filled the feed and water troughs and gave the chirras a good brushing on their soft curly coats. She took off her gloves to do it, since the oil on chirra wool was wonderful for the skin, if a bit smelly.

            When she entered the waystation, Savil had a stew bubbling on the hearth, and it was warm enough that Esmelle couldn't get her cloak and coat off fast enough. Savil nodded at her, but wasn't, it seemed, interested in conversation. They ate in a tense silence.

            Finally Esmelle felt her exasperation reach the boiling point. "We don't _have_ to be friends," she said sharply, and Savil jumped in surprise and stared at her, "but this undercurrent of hostility is unprofessional and can't be maintained for the whole mission! What is the matter with you? What did I ever do to you?"

            Savil's brows snapped together as she glared, the firelight eerily glittering in her eyes. "What did you do? Steal my lover, that's all!" she snarled. "Going behind my back and seducing him! Did you even ask about me? Or did you just want to one-up the Herald-Mage? Was this about _status_ to you?"

            "What?" Esmelle flinched. Savil's anger was like a whip in the air, tangible and stinging. "What do you have to do with this? I didn't _know_ he was your lover, yours exclusively! If he didn't see fit to tell me, maybe you should be angry with him, not me!"

            "Everyone knows," hissed Savil, "you're trying to make a laughing-stock of me!"

            Esmelle carefully breathed in and out as Herald Tanya had always advised, counting to seven on the inhale and seven on the exhale. In, out. "I don't even know you, Savil," she said. "I met Andy—Andrel—a few days ago! We got to know each other at the revel where I met you for the first time, and I thought you were only friends."

            There was something mulish in Savil's expression.

            "Maybe that happened to you before?" Esmelle suggested. "Maybe once someone actively tried to hurt you that way. I'm sorry, if that's the case—"

            Savil's expression grew dark like a thundercloud. "How dare you!" she cried. "You are the most—most presumptuous Herald I have ever met."

            "I'm _trying_ to empathize—"

            "And failing," snapped Savil, throwing up her hands in exasperation. Esmelle would have done the same, if it hadn't meant copying her. Savil continued, her face twisted in a scowl, "You're making up cock-and-bull stories to pretend to empathize with me, all while shamelessly admitting that you slept with my lover."

            "It's hardly my fault Andrel didn't tell me you were lovers," Esmelle cried.

            "You had the audacity to presume—"

            Esmelle cut her off, taking a step forward. "It's not my responsibility, it's his. If you have an issue with him sleeping with other women, maybe you could have told him that instead of bringing your resentment along for the ride!"

            Savil opened her mouth to snap back, but Esmelle wasn't done yet.

            "Anyway, we're Heralds, Savil," she said, standing on her toes to glare at her 'partner' in the eyes. "We don't have time to bicker like Bardic students over love."

            "I am hardly bickering," Savil retorted, "I am letting you know I won't stand to be—mocked and laughed at—"

            "I'm not laughing at you, I'm yelling at you!" And by now Esmelle was almost screaming instead of yelling. The fire popped and snapped, and the room felt too hot, too small, too tight. She wanted air.

            Savil's cheeks were red. But then she breathed out, and the clouds dispersed. Her muscles relaxed. She looked everywhere but at Esmelle, her gaze finally settling over the fire. "I—you're right," she said after a moment. "Yes. I'm... I apologize. Again. Well," she said with a little self-deprecating laugh that made Esmelle almost—almost—like her, "you're quite astute."

            _:Well, I'm grateful for your judgement and compliment, Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron:_ Esmelle complained to Miravia.

 _:What was that?:_ said Miravia in surprise.

            Esmelle blinked and turned away from Savil. _:How did you not hear?:_

            _:I was having a wonderful time with Kellan:_ Miravia said. _:Why, what did I miss?:_

            _:Nothing,:_ Esmelle said, frustrated beyond belief. She stripped to her smallclothes and crawled into bed. _:Good night.:_

            The next morning Savil was a smidgeon friendlier. She was polite, as well, and caught herself mid-order to turn them into requests. At least now Esmelle felt less like snatching up her sword whenever Savil looked at her. It was certainly not friendship, it was still awkward, but it was, Esmelle decided, a start.

***

They made good time. The weather was pleasant for winter, with light powdery snowfalls and bright sunny days that were not too cold. Once it even rained, which froze overnight, but melted as they went on. Kellan and Miravia both cut themselves once that day on sharp ice, but those were shallow cuts and easily tended. The chirras, being wooly and used to such weather, were fit as fiddles. Esmelle liked spending time with them, because unlike Savil, they were cheery and friendly. When they could, Companions and chirras walked abreast, because Kellan and Miravia were fast friends and liked to match their paces—much to Savil's disgust, and Esmelle's simmering tolerance.

            At Kettlesmith, they turned off the South Trade Road to the Goldgrass Valley Road, though it took them a few days to reach the Goldgrass Valley itself. Because they were not on circuit, they often stopped at inns. The road looped down into the valley and then looped back out into miles of rolling foothills. Esmelle was grateful every time they stopped at the villages, because she liked to talk to people, and Savil's stony silence was frustrating. Many of the townsfolk remembered her, since she had been their circuit Herald for the past three years, and she was delighted to catch up with their lives: births and marriages and trade agreements, winter faires and which bards had wandered through last.

            Once they left Bakerston, the road rose sharply upwards. For a few days they made little progress as they navigated the icy roads. Even the chirras picked their path with care and delicacy. It was harder for the chirras and Companions to find food now, so feed was rationed. It got colder, and the nights were cloud-free and glorious—not that Esmelle was ever warm enough to appreciate the glowing spread of stars. The weather held, thankfully, and no storm came on them. Still, it was bitter cold, killing-cold, and Esmelle began to feel as if warmth were a myth, a fever-dream of memories, like Haven, like beds.

            On their third day, just candlemarks from Covey, Savil heaved a great sigh. "I'm going to use magic to warm us," she said, "and to melt some of the ice on the road so we can make better time. It'll feel strange, but don't be afraid, I've done this before."

            Esmelle shifted nervously though Miravia stood statue-still beneath her. They were far up the side of the Rabbit's Haunch mountain, over which ran the road that led into the Comb. Beneath them was the rounded hill known as the Bunny's Tail—Esmelle loved the names, since from the Goldgrass Valley Road it really did look like a gigantic rabbit crouched amongst the mountains. Two of the taller mountains before them had thin spire tops that were the Rabbit's Ears. Behind them lay the vast snowy bowl that was the Goldgrass Valley in winter.

            The wind blew harder now, tugging at the Companion's braided manes and the Heralds' tightly bound hair. The Companions' tails, however, streamed like banners as snow gusted off the mountainside. The wind worried at cloak and coat fastenings, rattling the metal rings on the saddles.

            Kellan braced herself, standing foursquare on the flattest, safest area on the road. Savil leaned back in her saddle, muttering under her breath. For awhile nothing happened. Esmelle shivered, thinking longingly of the inn in Covey, how it would be bright and cozy, how the innkeeper would serve them mugs of hot mulled cider. The chirras bent their long necks and rooted through the ground, nudging aside snow and scratching ice away with their claws, finding little to munch.

            Savil flung her arms to each side, her eyes closed. Then she gestured out in front of her, and then behind, twisting backwards to do so. Esmelle rubbed her eyes, because the air around Savil seemed to distort. Then Esmelle realized the wind that was blowing into her face was now warm, like a sweet spring wind instead of the bitter breath of the Comb.

            Savil opened her eyes. Her face was slick with sweat. "Let's press on. The heat shield around us won't last long, and I need to melt the ice as I go. I'm going to be useless as a—a ragged sponge by the time we get to Covey."

            For the whole four candlemark journey, up the steep, steep incline, Esmelle could hardly breathe in her continued surprise. Ice melted around them, trickling in tiny brooks around the Companions' hooves. When she looked behind her, only a few paces where they had just walked, the water was freezing again. But it was warm, and all her body tingled with renewed feeling.

            _:Magic,:_ she said to Miravia, unable to express her amazement. Without it the journey would have taken days, carefully working around the treacherous ice, building fires frequently to stave off the chill.

            Miravia said, _:I wish we could always travel with a Herald-Mage.:_

            Esmelle raised her eyebrows at Savil's back. The Herald-Mage was slumped now in her saddle, holding the sides of it. She had been civil but curt since their argument. _:I'd consider it again only so long as they're nicer than oh-so-noble Savil Ashkevron:_ she said.

            Miravia's ears twitched. : _I'm sure she's not all that bad!:_ she said and trotted up to keep pace beside Kellan, who swung her head around and pressed her nose up against Miravia's in a brief affectionate hello.

            Covey was perched up the side of the North Rabbit's Ear. It was a cheerful alpine village with the familiar houses of that region: dark brown timber buildings decorated with white fanciful trim. The roofs were so tall and steep they were like mini-mountains themselves. The village was well maintained, and shovelled paths made walking easy. The biggest building in Covey was the inn, the Mare's Breakfast, and it was still covered in pine boughs left over from the Midwinter celebration. As the Heralds rode in, chirras keeping pace, villagers turned to gawk at them, pointing and calling others out from their houses.

            By the time they reached the inn, Savil's spell had worn off. The mayor of the village, a lean old woman with icy eyes and a bright red scarf, shuffled under a weight of four or five skirts to greet them.

            "Heralds! At this time of year! And well met the both of you. I am Galespie, mayor. We've stabling for your Companions—a welcome to you fine ladies indeed—and your chirras. Chirras! Good thing to bring. The Comb's said to be impassable!" She spoke in a thick accent very like the Rethwellan dialect.

            "Almost was," gasped Savil. "Mayor Galespie, I am Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron, and this is my colleague Herald Esmelle. We were told of your troubles—"

            "Yes, yes, do the official talking inside once you've defrosted a little. The bullyboys are down in Bell's Valley for now, and snowed in too I'd wager. So we've time. First we'll get you settled and warmed up, and then you'll help us with your problems."

            "We're very grateful, Mayor Galespie," Esmelle said. She dismounted, but Savil almost collapsed from the saddle. Esmelle hurried around Miravia to help hold her up. Savil wrapped her arm around Esmelle's shoulders.

            A boy and a girl a bit younger took charge of the chirras, and the Companions followed after. _:Take care of Savil and make sure she eats and drinks,:_ Miravia told Esmelle. _:Kellan says she won't really recover until she's slept. If she's cranky, be kind. We might have died on the slope without that heat shield.:_

 _:Don't bother about my manners,:_ said Esmelle, miffed. _:You Chose me, after all.:_ She put up shields, so Miravia couldn't reply. _Just because I don't like her doesn't mean I'll treat her unfairly,_ Esmelle thought to herself, stung.

            Inside the high-ceilinged room were long tables and benches, and two immense fireplaces full of leaping flames. In one, meat was roasting, and a child of indeterminate gender turned the spit with one hand and beat on a small skin drum with another. The rhythm was slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat. Esmelle helped Savil onto a bench. As they entered, the innkeeper, an elderly woman with mottled brown skin, came out and then back into her kitchen, and when she came out again, it was with large earthenware mugs full of steaming tea redolent with herbs. Esmelle sniffed her mug: camomile and elderflower and something sweet, a berry perhaps. It was warm and delicious and everything she could have wanted.

            Savil drank her tea by wrapping both hands around it, and when she lifted it to her lips she drank slowly, and her hands shook.

            "I need to put her to bed," Esmelle said, after thanking mayor and innkeeper together. "She needs rest after the spellworking she did to get us safely up the mountain."

            "We'll set you up with rooms, fear naught," said the innkeeper, shaking her skirts. She led them to a door beside the entrance to the kitchens, which led to the stairs. Above was a long hallway with five doors on each side. "This be the off season," the innkeeper commented in her paper-dry voice, opening the first door on the left. "And a bloody cold one at that. You'll be alone on this floor but for me and mine."

            The room was clean and whitewashed, with an immense bed on one side and a battered wardrobe on the other. The window was shuttered closed, and hung with thick curtains. Esmelle helped Savil to bed, and the other Herald was asleep within seconds.

***

"He said he was a prince of Rethwellan! And he had four—"

            "Six," interjected the innkeeper, whose name was Hillah.

            Mayor Galespie glowered at the innkeeper. "Six then. Six men-at-arms, and all mounted on such horses! Why, the prince had a destrier, big as your Companion, Herald Esmelle. Like a fairytale, 'twas. But what he said was more nightmare, he said Covey, just like Bell's Valley, was his forefather's land, and beholden to him, and he made us give him so much gold, and foodstuffs as well. Only a little, thank Astera, but I don't doubt Bell's Valley will be in some trouble. He's living in that old castle down there."

            "It's true, what he said," said Hillah.

            "What do you mean?" asked Savil sharply.

            Hillah blinked at Savil. Her blue eyes shone weirdly with developing cataracts. They all sat on the benches by one of the mighty hearths of the inn. No meat cooked now. A handful of other villagers clustered around their leaders and the two Heralds. On the table lay Savil's satchel of documents. The current map of Valdemar was held open with mugs on all four corners—and in it, the Valdemaran border was clearly marked to include Bell's Valley as its southernmost point.

            Slowly, Hillah traced the borderline, almost absently, with a trembling finger. Her finger jerked upwards, over the Comb. "Here is where that line was drawn, when I was a little girl," she said in an even measure, her voice like a soft rasp. Between her tone and thick southern accent, Esmelle had to concentrate to understand her. "We were under Rethwellan rule then. He is not so mistaken."

            Savil said, "It's still a direct contradiction to the current treaty, which is as recent as last year. The Treaty of 752 reinforced—"

            "I think," said Esmelle, seeing Hillah's raised eyebrow and a tall man's stifled yawn, "our next step is to confront this Jadrevalyn prince and see if we can sort this out."

            Savil shrugged and shifted the mugs aside to roll up the map. "That's true enough. Thank you for sharing your information with us, Mayor Galespie, Innkeeper Hillah."

            ***

They left in two days. Snow had fallen overnight, and the overcast day kept in the heat. It wouldn't stay that way for long, but it was as good a time as any to make for Bell's Valley. The road from Covey went down, down, down, twisting sharply to left and right in a dizzying set of switchbacks. Pine trees fuzzed over the horizon. The Companions and chirras placed their feet with great care, because the snow covered the ice. Little slips happened every candlemark or so. In summer, even on Companion-back, the trip from Covey to Bell's Valley took about a day. It took the group two and a half.

            Bell's Valley was aptly named: it was tucked into the middle of the Comb, smack-dab in the centre of the mountain pass that joined Rethwellan and Valdemar. Like Covey the buildings had steep snow-roofs, but there were less of them. Amongst a spread of snow-blanketed farms the town centre seemed to have sprouted like a mushroom ring.

            To the west of the road, there was a stone manse halfway up a small hill, less than a mile away from the town. It had been abandoned for several years, but as they rode slowly towards town, as dusk fell, Esmelle could see lights in some of the manse's windows.

            She closed her eyes. _:Keep me steady, Mira.:_ she said. The last thing she wanted was to fall out of the saddle because her concentration was elsewhere.

_:Of course, love.:_

            Her mind's eye sped across the land, over the town, past the town, past the tall snow-drifts and trampled, dirty roads, past juniper and pine, to the manse. It was an impressively ugly, boxy building, quite out of fashion and built with massive grey stones. Its style was certainly more Rethwellan than Valdemaran, but aspects about its utilitarian facade put Esmelle in mind of some of the fortresses in the Kleimar region on the border with Hardorn. Swiftly her magical vision sped through its rooms, past servants, men-at-arms, men at rest who were likely men-at-arms off duty. Clothing bore a crest she didn't know, of a hawk stooping to catch some sort of fish, with squiggly lines at the bottom that indicated water. There was a man with richer clothes than the others, very young, with stubble on his jaw and a pale patchy mustache. His hair was reddish brown, and he stood inside a—bedchamber? Yes, and he was yelling and gesticulating at—

            Esmelle blinked and shook her head, disoriented. Something about the room had felt funny to her Farsight. _Fuzzy._ As if someone had covered her face with a fur shawl.

            "I think there's some kind of shield on the manse," she said to Savil.

            "Pardon me?" Savil asked stiffly. She looked at Esmelle as if she'd forgotten the other Herald rode beside her. Despite that Kellan and Miravia rode as close to each other as was safe.

            "I looked over the rooms," Esmelle explained, "with my Farsight. And I sort of .... rubbed against something. Or it rubbed on me. Like a... a giant cat, pushing against your leg and unbalancing you. I wasn't able to see much." Quickly she explained what she'd seen.

            "Why didn't you tell me you were going to use your Gift?" Savil asked.

            Esmelle felt her eyebrows raise. "I'm a full Herald, Savil. I don't need to ask your permission. Miravia knew, and if anything had happened, she would have told Kellan."

            Savil opened her mouth and closed it again. She rose in her stirrups and settled again, toying with the reins, which made Kellan snort loudly and lift her head. Savil promptly dropped the reins and smiled.

            The smile transformed her face. It was a wide smile that took attention away from her nose, and made her blue eyes seem friendlier. "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry. I'm really not used to working with... with anyone else, really. It's normally just Kellan and I."

            Esmelle smiled back, more out of relief than friendliness.

            Savil asked, "I should have asked about your Gift much earlier. Farsight—I knew that. Do you have any Foresight or ... ?"

            "No, Farsight in the present. That's all. It's not particularly strong. My Mindspeech is even weaker."

            Savil gave her an appraising glance and nodded. For the first time, Esmelle felt like Savil was empty of any hostility towards her. A muscle in her back that she hadn't realized was tense relaxed.

            The Companions and chirras had fully descended into the valley now. Esmelle said, "Why don't we stay in the Waystation tonight? That neutrality might be useful."

            "Is there one?"

            "Newly built, on the opposite side of town from the manse."

            Savil nodded. "Please, lead on."

***

The Bell's Valley folk had little to say that was different from the Covey report. They wanted to be free of the Jadrevalyn, and to be under Valdemaran rule, and no small part of that was the trust they put in the Heralds.

            The Companions trotted up to the manse, on a road much-better maintained than the treacherous road from Covey. The chirras they left behind at the Waystation, since there was no need for them.

            Now they were outfitted as Heralds on a diplomatic mission: the Companions in light barding, bells on their bridles, ribbons in their manes; Savil and Esmelle in formal winter whites, lined with silk and accented with velvet, cozy in fur-trimmed cloaks that spread over their Companion's flanks. Though their more work-a-day cloaks, also fur-trimmed, were cozier still, Esmelle did not miss them: the day was bright and almost warm.

            The men-at-arms—all men—came to grab the bridles of their Companions as they rode to the doors of the manse. They didn't seem to notice the lack of bits, or if they did, they weren't surprised.

            _:How rude:_ Miravia said with a touch of amusement, looking sidelong at her captor, a man with thick stubble and cheeks ruddy and raw from the wind. The men were all of a type: tall, broad-shouldered, brown-skinned, with dark eyes and dark hair. They seemed to move well as a unit. Their captain had a white cloak-pin and one burnished pauldron on his left shoulder.

            Savil, who wore a fillet of silver over her sternly braided hair, said, "I am Herald Savil Ashkevron, empowered as ambassador by Queen Elspeth, come to meet with the Lord Jadrevalyn."

            "Prince Jadrevalyn to you," said the captain.

            "Prince Jadrevalyn, then," said Savil, with a polite—too polite—nod at the captain. She regarded him coldly.

            _:She said 'Herald', not 'Herald-Mage',:_ Esmelle said to Miravia.

            Miravia flicked her ears back. _:She's not revealing all her cards at once.:_

_:Good.:_

            The captain bowed his head after a moment, as much, Esmelle thought, to break eye-contact with Savil as to show her respect. He gestured to her to dismount, and she and Esmelle did so, admonishing the men to treat the Companions with respect, and to give them a warm stable.

            _:I'd just as well let them think we're horses,:_ Miravia said. _:Really, I don't mind.:_ The man holding her bridle tugged hard an the reins, and she swished her tail back and forth rapidly. _:Only a little, anyway:_ she amended. _:Kellan should step on them for me.:_ Esmelle fought the smirk off her face as she and Savil entered the manse.

            The Jadrevalyn Prince met them, after several long minutes where they were left cooling their heels in a small sitting-room. He entered with two men-at-arms at his back. He was young, only eighteen or nineteen, with big black eyes, dark dusky skin, and short wiry hair. His mouth was full and sensuous and prone, thought Esmelle, to pouting. He was not especially handsome, at least not in the Valdemaran way, but he was pleasant enough. He was a man that all but screamed 'spoiled': from his velvet tunic to the way he expected and ignored the armed men beside him, to the slight curl at the corner of his mouth.

            One of his men announced him: "Prince Athornathan Jadrevalyn of Rethwellan." You could break your mouth on a name like that, Esmelle thought.

            "I was not told Queen Elspeth was sending an ambassador," said Athornathan. His voice was a light tenor, which, as he was broad-shouldered and wide-featured, surprised Esmelle. Unlike his captain or the man who had announced him, his voice was thickly accented.

            Savil said, "We were not told you were here. The Queen was uncertain as to whether you were, in fact, a prince of the royal line."

            "I am the son of King Megrarthon," said Athornathan, lifting his chin.

            _:The fifth or sixth child, probably:_ Miravia said. : _The King and Queen of Rethwellan have about eight. Ah, yes. Kellan says he is the sixth child, the fourth son. The Rethwellans are a bit barbaric, so that makes him the fourth in line for the throne._ :

 _:There is no one true way,:_ Esmelle thought back, absentmindedly. She was admiring Savil's smooth expression: for a woman so awkward with interactions, Savil could certainly keep her face blank of emotion when she needed to.

            Miravia pointedly did not reply.

            "We have come at the complaint of the people in the villages. This is Valdemaran land, and they claim you have taxed them, and extorted them for foodstuffs and other goods. Valdemar is at peace with Rethwellan: we are hoping this is not meant as an act of war," said Savil, spreading her arms slightly.

            "This is Rethwellan land!" cried the prince, shocked. "How dare you insinuate...! This was my grandfather's lodge! These are my people!"

            Savil continued, seemingly unfazed, "This land was ceded in 746 in a treaty between your royal grandfather and King Tyrdel of Valdemar. That was reinforced in last year's treaty between King Megrarthon and Queen Elspeth, which also ceded the territory of Lisle and the Holderlands to Rethwellan."

            "I don't know any such treaty," said Athornathan, his voice nasal with petulance.

            "To help clear things up, I brought one along," said Savil.

            Esmelle felt her brows pull together at Savil's tone. She struggled to smooth her expression. _:Savil isn't trying to antagonize the prince, is she? Get Kellan to tell her to be more... respectful. He's the kind that responds well to flattery and, hmm, diffidence. She can be matter-of-fact, but she can't show her scorn!:_

            _:Kellan's prompting her:_ Miravia said. _:Savil's not really good at this sort of thing.:_

            _:I could do it,:_ Esmelle said as she watched Savil remove the rolls of parchment and high-quality vellum from her satchel, pulling away the ribbons on the treaties. The closer man-at-arms reached out to help unfold the map.

            _:You could, but you're not noble.:_

 _:Does this sprout even know an Ashkevron from an Arkwright?:_ asked Esmelle grumpily. _:'Arkwright' isn't even a Rethwellan term.:_

            _:'Ashkevron' has more syllables:_ Miravia said, but she was laughing, and Esmelle, keeping her face smooth, sent mental laughter back.

            "My map looks nothing like this!" Prince Athornathan cried. "This could be a forgery!"

            "Respectfully, your highness, but why would it be?" asked Savil with a tiny bow.

_:Tell Kellan to tell her not to overdo it, either!:_

"Trying to steal _my_ land and _my_ territory," Athornathan said, looking mulish with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

            "Your Highness," said Savil in a voice thin with the tension of keeping back scorn or amusement, "Why would we do that? As it says here," she tapped her Ambassador's Writ, "I am an ambassador, and a Herald, with no need of land for my own. As an Ashkevron, my family's holdings and keep are many weeks' ride to the north. Moreover, you see the treaties are sealed with authentic Valdemaran seals."

            "But no authentic Rethwellan seals," said Athornathan, this time sounding smug, as if he'd caught her in a lie.

            "But accurate copies, as custom declares. Of course we did not bring the real treaties, up the mountains in the snow!"

            "It's too suspicious, too uncommon" said Athornathan, shaking his head. "Two lone females, riding up with treaties saying my home is not my home? Do you expect me to pack up and leave, even now in the midst of winter?"

            "We came to talk, before we did anything else," said Savil.

            Athornathan's lip curled. "Come back tomorrow at noon, and we will speak again. My wizard will verify the accuracy of the seals, to see if you really are sent from Queen Elspeth. Good day, Heralds."

            He barely nodded to them and left in a soft swish of velvet clothing.

***

"'Two females, riding up alone!'" mocked Savil, a bite of anger like a winter's chill in her voice. She banged her hand down on the long table in the inn's taproom. It wasn't yet sundown, and the taproom held only a few others, holding conversations several tables over.

            "Rethwellans are like that," said Esmelle.

            Savil snorted expressively through her nose. "What's _being female_ got to do with anything, anyway?"

            "Nothing," Esmelle agreed. "But it's certainly a persistent belief, isn't it?"

            "My father's like that, a bit," said Savil. "A lot, actually. That's why I ran away from home. Baires and Lineas are even worse. I can't _stand_ that attitude!"

            "The Kleimar lands are like that too," offered Esmelle. "Herald Tanya and I rode circuit there, right after I got my Whites. It's just as well we were wearing whites, because if we hadn't been, no one would have deigned to tell us how many candlemarks to the next village. Even worse if you're the type that loves your own gender. They shun people like that outright."

            "No one true way, and yet Valdemar is full of different ways," said Savil with a shake of her head. "Everyone trying to convince their neighbour their way is better."

            "It's all a matter of education," Esmelle said.

            "Why do you say that?"

            "Because of how important your parents and your community are to the beliefs you hold as an adult," Esmelle explained. "If the parents are small-minded and fearful, a child often grows to be just as small-minded and fearful, because they've got no other options."

            "That's hardly something we can fix," Savil said.

            "The key's in schooling," Esmelle said, warming to her favourite argument.

            "Be that as it may, that's neither here nor there. Right now we have Prince Athornathan to deal with," said Savil. At that moment, a young man with a mop of curly black hair brought them their cider and meat pies.

            The Heralds were silent for awhile as they ate their early dinner and drank the light cider.

            The pies devoured, Savil said, "There are strong mage protections on the manse."

            "That explains the fuzzy feeling. The one that dissolved my Farsight."

            "Precisely. Well, it's not surprising. The prince's mage is Master level, though."

            Esmelle cocked her head to the side and rested it on her palm. "Master level? Is that a problem?"

            Savil shrugged. "I hope not. I am likely the better mage, but I hope it doesn't come to a conflict."

            When they left the inn, the Companions were not in the small, warm stable.

            _:Mira?:_ Esmelle called.

            _:Just a second, we're coming!:_ Miravia's mindvoice felt strangely breathy and bright and full of good humour, which the mind-to-mind connection translated variously as the crinkle of autumn leaves and the first bite into an apple.

            "Miravia's happy about something," Esmelle said. "Very happy."

            Savil gave Esmelle a strange look. "So is Kellan. Do they seem ... overly giddy to you? I don't know Miravia, of course, but—"

            Esmelle scanned the village's heart. There was a well in the centre, and they were surrounded by buildings: inn, town hall, several shops and workshops. Snow fell lightly. "It's unusual. I don't mean to say I'm _unhappy_ that our Companions are happy..."

            Savil shook her head, baffled. "Do you ever feel like they're not telling us something?"

            Just then, Kellan and Miravia cantered around the corner of the general store and the town hall, slowing to a showy trot, flicking their tails against each other and nickering with laughter.

            Esmelle bit her lip and released it, fighting back her own laugh. She looked sidelong at Savil. "I think I've figured it out."

            Savil rolled her eyes and cracked her neck. "Oh _, great._ Lovebirds. Just what we needed."

***

The next morning the Heralds donned their formal whites, belled their Companions, and left the Waystation for the manse. Kellan and Miravia tossed their manes and frisked under their Heralds. They held a high-stepping contest, trotting with their forelegs pawing the air dramatically, giving the occasional hop and bounce.

            Their Heralds, on the other hand, sat still and quiet, exchanging the odd glance with one another. Savil, Esmelle guessed, was concerned about meeting the mage. Esmelle was worried Savil's struggle with diplomacy might land them in trouble.

            _:The men treated me well enough the last time:_ Miravia said as Esmelle dismounted before the manse, hesitating to allow the men-at-arms to take hold of Miravia's bridle. _:They might have thought we were horses, but that's fine. It's just boring, being in a stall when it's not bedtime.:_

            Esmelle stroked Miravia's smooth, warm face with her hand. _:I know, love. I always feel better when you're around. Rethwellans just... aren't Valdemaran:_ She laughed ruefully at her little joke, and felt heat rise in her face as the man-at-arms stared at her oddly. _:Like that.:_

            Miravia nuzzled Esmelle's hand, doing a very good impression of a horse nosing from treats. She even butted Esmelle's side as if sniffing out pockets. _:You did fine last time:_ she said reassuringly.

            Then the Companions were gone around the side of the manse, and Esmelle and Savil entered for the second time, their cloak hems slipping soundlessly over the old stone floors. The room they were taken to was large, a big table in the centre and a sideboard and silverware-filled hutch on the side. The room was decorated in reds and yellow tapestries, the furniture made of cedar.

            Prince Athornathan joined them after only a few minutes. A older, thin man with a thin black beard followed him. The thin man was undoubtedly a wizard: he wore simple black robes and a big grey multifaceted stone on a chain around his neck. His skin was darker than Athornathan's, but his eyes were a lighter brown, and he looked suspiciously at the Heralds.

            "Greetings of the day, Prince Jadrevalyn," said Savil politely, and Esmelle murmured her own polite greeting. They both bowed shallowly, at a precise angle.

            "And to you, Heralds," said the prince. "This is Urthuanor, my wizard. Please, show us the treaties."

            When Savil had unrolled the copies of the 746 and 752 treaties, and Esmelle had also opened the map, the wizard Urthuanor stepped forward. He sprinkled a pale powder over the seals, mouthed a few soundless words, and smoke floated up from the otherwise-undamaged seals. Esmelle looked at Savil, who looked curious but unworried. The smoke was golden, and formed a rather lovely, fluffy cloud before dissipating.

            "The seals are genuine, Prince Athor," said the wizard. There was a stumble when he said 'prince', and Esmelle guessed that Urthuanor was very close with the prince, to call him by his short name and not be used to using his title. "These Heralds are clearly come from the capital."

            "As we have told you," said Savil, and Esmelle winced internally from the sharpness of her tone. Athornathan's eyes narrowed.

            "You must forgive our surprise at your reaction," Esmelle said, speaking deliberately slow and clear, smiling so to inject her words with kindness, "but as Heralds we are known in Valdemar—and outkingdom, we hope—as honest. We are lawkeepers, and our currency is truth."

            _:You stole that from your friend's song!:_ accused Miravia. _:The Bardic friend. 'Our currency is truth.' That's drivel!:_

            _:Well, Prince 'Athor' isn't going to know that:_ Esmelle said. _:Hush, I'm being a diplomat.:_

Esmelle continued aloud, "But I know your highness is not used to our ways, and so you had no intention of insult."

            Prince Athornathan's brow furrowed. "No, of course no insult was intended. You are right. We have nothing like Heralds in Rethwellan. But you must understand the need for ensuring the truth in our way."

            "Of course," said Esmelle, "It is only natural. Now we can talk about what we will do."

            Athor looked at his wizard, almost in confusion, and Savil chose that moment to drop her blank mask and give Esmelle a wobbly smile of gratitude.

            "The fact remains," said Athor after a pause, "that the maps I have, which are all current to this year, claim this area and the villages of Bell's Valley and Covey, to be Rethwellan territory."

            "Were you not surprised that the villagers did not know you or recognize your rule? That they spoke Valdemaran?" asked Savil. She said it pleasantly enough.

            Athor shook his head. "They spoke Rethwellan!"

            "They speak a dialect that is like both languages," said Esmelle.

            "They share many words with Valdemaran," said Urthuanor at the same time. The wizard blinked, then nodded at Esmelle, who nodded right back.

            Athor shrugged. "Besides that, border villagers are always stubborn, trying to dodge taxes and tithes at every opportunity."

            Savil frowned.

            Esmelle thought hastily at Miravia, _:Savil doesn't need to jump on that! Nobles can be rude to their people, legally, damn it, but it's going to cause naught but an argument if she calls him on it.:_

_:Kellan is speaking with her.:_

Savil's face eased back into diplomatic smoothness. “They have recently been visited by Valdemaran tax-keepers,” she explained in as neutral a voice as Esmelle had ever heard, “so you might be able to understand why they would be especially reticent to give up additional taxes and tithes. They need to eat over the winter.”

            “But why are you Valdemarans taxing them? You clearly have the wrong treaties and the wrong maps," insisted Athornathan.

            "Your own court wizard tested the veracity of the documents! The seals proclaim them legitimate!" cried Savil, incredulity dripping from each word.

            Esmelle tensed, but the prince only looked affronted and frustrated. Not angry.

            "So, you have seals," said Athor, "but that proves nothing. The treaties themselves could be forgeries. No, you must tell the Valdemaran Queen—if truly you are her emissaries—that this is Rethwellan land. She must return what she has taken in wrongful tax from _my_ people. Begone." He flapped a hand dismissively at them.

            Esmelle saw Urthuanor raise an eyebrow at the prince, and because she was studying the wizard, she missed the rage come into Savil's face, and was too late to stop the outburst.

            "Unacceptable," Savil cried, banging the table with her fist. "You haven't been listening to a thing I or Herald Esmelle have been saying! I have come as an empowered ambassador with legitimate seals from Queen Elspeth herself, and I will not be treated as if I am a brigand. Are you daft? Are you trying to start a war?"

            Athor stiffened, his lip curled, his fists clenched. "How dare you—

            Esmelle caught Savil's arm. "Herald-Mage Savil, please," she said desperately, knowing there was no way to salvage this.

            "Herald- _Mage_?" demanded Athor. "This woman is a mage?" He looked at Urthuanor, who narrowed his eyes for a moment and then nodded.

            _Damn_. : _Now I've done it,:_ Esmelle frantically thought at Miravia. If Athor had been angry before, he was furious now.

            : _A natural mistake to make_ : Miravia sent sensations that tried to emulate the feeling of warm blankets, for soothing, but the thought came off rather frayed. Miravia was nervous.

            "A mage with phony treaties! How do I know you are not trying to start a war with _Rethwellan?_ " demanded Athor, his voice rising in pitch and volume. "Or maybe you are assassins, is that it? Urthuanor! Secure the mage! Guards! Arrest these false Heralds!"

            _What?_

            Esmelle felt the room fill with weird energies as half-visible, sparkling chains lunged through the air at Savil. They struck the air around Savil and rebounded, and Esmelle did not hear but _felt_ the ring of magic chains against magic shield. Four guards ran into the room through the only door, holding spears at the ready. Were they going to _kill_ the Heralds?!

            : _The window!:_ Miravia called.

A second later, the glass in the nearest window shattered. Savil's magic? Savil threw herself through the empty window, scrambling over the hutch to get out. Esmelle launched herself up and out, throwing herself out the window. She struck the ground, rolled in the snow, and staggered upright. The snow here was up to her knees.

            "Come on," yelled Savil, wading through snow towards the little half-wall that bordered the snow-covered gardens that surrounded the manse. Esmelle followed as fast as she could, but it was hard to get her legs clear of the snow. They weren't moving quickly, and a glance behind told her two guards were in pursuit—one had jumped out the window behind her, and another was in the window, poised to leap.

            : _Miravia? Are you in your stall?_ :

            : _I can't get at the latch_ : said Miravia. : _I'm going to try kicking down the door. Kellan's already started on hers._ :

            Esmelle and Savil weren't too ahead of the guards, but the guards were similarly hampered by the high snow. The chase was almost comical, Esmelle thought with frustration, as they ran in slow motion for the half-wall.

            Before they got there, a noise, like a massive sheet of ice cracking, sounded all around. The hairs on the back of Esmelle's neck stood up. Red lightnings flashed over the half-wall, and Esmelle saw they formed a shimmering spiderweb orb that encased the manse and its grounds. Then they were invisible, but Esmelle knew they were still there, though she couldn't say how she knew.

            "The shield," Savil said, and spat on the ground. She made an abrupt motion with her hand, and the red lightnings seemed to bend backwards, and then fade away again. Savil threw nothingness—but Esmelle guessed it was magical energy—at the shield, handful after handful, and those weird red lightnings seemed to bend backwards under the assault. Bend, but not break.

            But it was too late. The guards were swarming out of the manse. The two that had followed them out the window were right by the Heralds, spears pointed at them. Miravia and Kellan came at a gallop round the corner of the manse, but stopped when they saw the guards. Kellan's head drooped.

            Snow had started to fall, and the wind picked up. Esmelle sighed. : _I think we're under arrest then_ : she told Miravia. : _Hopefully we won't be executed..._ :

            Miravia sent back wordless comfort, tinged with a static crackle of fear. She had no idea what to say.

***

The apartments they were taken to were a little shabby, but otherwise comfortable. There was a bedroom and a sitting room which shared a chimney. The guards lit a fire for them in the sitting room before leaving. Esmelle was relieved to find that 'arrest' just meant 'confinement'. The prince, it seemed, did not want them dead. At least they had that.

            : _Maybe it's just as well. There's a blizzard coming_ : said Miravia. : _We'll be warmer here, at least._ :

            : _Are you comfortable, love? Have they hurt you?_ :

            : _Not at all. They simply led us back to our stall. We cooperated. This is supposed to be a diplomatic mission._ :

            Esmelle sank into a chair by the fire, one of two. She stole a look at Savil, who was sitting on the other chair and scowling furiously. : _I suppose Kellan is giving her an earful?:_ she asked Miravia.

            : _Pretty much._ :

            Esmelle propped her chin on her hands. : _I shouldn't have let it slip that Savil was a mage._ :

            Miravia's mindvoice came with images of soothing, summer-bright meadows, full of lavender blowing in a sweet-scented breeze. : _This wasn't your fault. Prince Athornathan was suspicious of you all along. If there is blame to be placed, it is on Savil; or if not Savil, then Athornathan._ :

            : _I should have ... I don't know. Given Savil pointers on keeping her temper in check. In speaking prettily._ :

            : _Don't beat yourself up, Chosen. You and Savil were not exactly friends. You don't know that she would have appreciated such lessoning._ :

            Esmelle thought, : _Well, why did they send Savil, anyway? There are other Herald-Mages, presumably some who aren't terrible at diplomacy!:_

 _:There were none to spare.:_ Now Miravia's mindvoice held a note of censure. : _Valdemar is vast, and Herald-Mages are_ _few_.:

            Esmelle rolled her eyes and slumped in her chair. : _Look, can't I just be immature and whiny in my head at least?_ : she complained to Miravia. : _Without you going all moral-compass-you-represent-Valdemar-at-all-times on me._ :

            Miravia huffed and Esmelle had the distinct impression her Companion was pawing at the straw in her stall. After a moment, she said : _There is healthy selfishness, the kind that lets off steam, and there's going down a path that builds resentment. I feel like you are tending towards the latter, and that's not fair to Savil. She is a Herald, just like you. She puts duty and Valdemar first, and always will. You are sisters in duty._ :

            : _Now who's borrowing lines from Bardic songs?_ : Esmelle smiled ruefully. Her horse was probably right.

            : _I'm not a horse._ :

            : _Eat your oats._ :

            : _You eat oats._ :

            : _I cook mine first._ :

"Esmelle," said Savil.

            Esmelle shook her head and looked up into Savil's pale blue eyes. "Yes?"

            "I want to try and contact the Circle at Haven," said Savil. "You have Mindspeaking—"

            Esmelle was shaking her head. "But it's not strong enough. Miravia's only just close enough."

            "That's not what I meant," said Savil. "I'm going to use Kellan's power, and maybe Miravia's if she'll help, and try to reach the nearest Herald."

            : _Tell Savil I'll help._ :

            "Miravia will help you," Esmelle said. "What has that to do with my Mindspeaking?"

            In her lap, Savil's hands clenched tight. "I'm going to see if I can use my mage-energy to amplify my mindvoice. There's a tight, powerful shield on the manse, and a tighter one on these rooms. It's keyed to mage-energy, but I think I can slip through it using Mindspeech."

            Esmelle shook her head in confusion. She understood her own Gift, but the Mage Gift was beyond her. Its rules were alien to her.

            Savil blinked at her. "I'm sorry, I've lost you. Essentially, I'm going into a deep trance. If you need to contact me, just call to me softly using Mindspeech. Don't try and disturb me physically. And if it's been several candlemarks—over four, I think—try to 'wake' me with Mindspeech."

            "Why not ask Kellan to help?"

            Savil said, "Because Kellan and Miravia are going to be involved with the spell. That leaves you. Also, please limit the noise you make, if you can."

            Esmelle nodded.

            "And Esmelle?"

            : _What now?_ : grumbled Esmelle.

            "Thank you." Savil smiled, and once again Esmelle was struck by the change in her expression. Esmelle smiled back and nodded to Savil.

            Then Savil was sitting on the floor by the fire, crossing her legs, her hands resting in her lap. Her eyes closed, and she was silent.

            : _You're right,_ : Esmelle said to Miravia. : _I wasn't being fair to her._ :

            : _I'm glad. Now hush. I'm going to join in the spellworking. You're going to have to leave me alone._ :

            : _I'm going to be very bored._ :

            : _Such is life,_ : said Miravia. And her mental shields clamped down, closing off their connection.

            There were time-marking candles on the mantel above the fireplace. Several one-candlemark candles, and fatter ones, all delineated by grooves cut into the wax. Esmelle lit a five-mark candle. Then she used a taper to light the fireplace in the bedroom, to warm it up for night. Which was about six candlemarks off. It was cold in the bedroom, so Esmelle left the fire there and returned to the sitting room. It was unnerving to see Savil sit there so still, hardly breathing, lost in the work of her spellcasting.

            There were a few books in the sitting room, but they were in Rethwellan, and Esmelle's written Rethwellan was quite bad. One was religious in nature, and the others some sort of ... novel? A series? She shrugged and returned to her chair. She stared into the fire, added another log, stared some more.

            Her eyes unfocussed. She hadn't quite meant to, but she found herself looking around the room with her Farsight. It was fuzzy, blurred, and she remembered trying to see into the manse when they had come down the mountain from Covey.

            Fuzzy, but not impossible. Now that she knew what to expect, she relaxed into the soft fuzziness, no longer straining to make out vivid details, allowing herself to be satisfied with the impressions she received.

            Her physical body settled into the chair. The gap between seat and armrest was wide enough that she could sit crosslegged with her knees poking out. She gazed over the short hallway outside the rooms she and Savil had been given. There were big windows along one side of the manse. The stairwell at one side of the hall led both up and down. Esmelle's vision went up, around the spiral stairs, into a hallway that was almost identical to the one below, except the rugs were of finer make, and there was an immense unfaded tapestry all along the unwindowed wall.

            Like the hallway below, it joined another that led left, to the other side of the manse. Midway through, there was a set of two doors.

            Beyond them, she saw someone she recognised in the rich sitting room she found within: the red-headed young man from the first time she had used her Farsight on the manse. He was sulking in a chair, scraping at a piece of wood with a knife in a pale imitation of whittling. As Esmelle regarded him, certain details resolved: a broad nose, thick lips, pale freckled skin, dark eyes. He couldn't have been over sixteen, but he couldn't be much younger, since he was covered in the fuzz of a first beard.

            He looked overwhelmingly familiar, but she couldn't place him. A fire burned across from where he slouched.

            A woman entered the suite. She wore an embroidered red overgown over white, and a yellow and orange stole over one shoulder, held by a glittering brooch. Her skin was black. Her hair was covered in a yellow and red headscarf, bound by golden pins.

            Suddenly Esmelle realized who the boy reminded her of. He and the woman both strongly resembled Athornathan! Were they relatives, then? Cousins? Why had Athornathan not mentioned relatives, or acted as if he were the only person of rank in Bell's Valley?

            "Mother," said the redhead, in a rude abrupt greeting. His voice was distorted by magic, so that Esmelle had to strain very hard to understand him. "I can't take any more of this. Can I at least get the cook to make me marzipan cakes?"

            He spoke Rethwellan, which didn't surprise Esmelle.

            "Lirath, we're out. Well and truly out of marzipan."

            "Then send me back to the palace," Lirath whined. "I'm bored, I can't eat marzipan, I'm not allowed out to hunt, we didn't bring my hawk _or_ my hounds—"

            "Lirathuaro Jadrevalyn!" the woman snapped, her eyebrows drawing together as she scowled fiercely. "I don't like it any better than you do. You know a whole window exploded downstairs, and your brother won't tell me a damned thing about what is going on."

            _Jadrevalyn_? There were two princes here? Brothers? Then that suggested the woman was the Queen of Rethwellan!

            Shocked, Esmelle fell back into her body.

***

The candle finally burned down to the fourth mark.

            : _Savil?_ : asked Esmelle. : _Savil, it's time._ :

            : _Yes. Thank you._ : Savil's mindvoice was as brusque as her speech, but mind-to-mind carried a flavour of kindness and courtesy that Esmelle had not expected. It felt like a hearthfire's warmth... and beyond that, difficult to put into words as all mind impressions were.

            In the sitting room, Esmelle and Savil opened their eyes. Savil stood and began to run through a series of exercises. As she stretched, her arms pulling first to one side and then the next, she said, "It took me awhile, but I was able to slip my Mindspeech past the shields, and then I figured out how to boost it with my mage power without letting that power touch the shields—I won't explain it all," she reassured Esmelle with a laugh. She continued, breathily, "I'm just telling you I succeeded. I got in touch with Lancir—with Taver's help on his end. I spent about a candlemark sort of... piggybacking or leapfrogging Heralds on circuit, all the way up to Haven. They're not certain how we should handle things, because the blizzard's all over the Comb. There's a weathermage in Lisle who claims the Comb's going to be terribly snowed in for the next week or so. She's with one of the Heralds who I contacted 'en route' to Haven."

            "That's not good," said Esmelle mildly. Miravia sent her wordless reassurances.

            "No. Essentially, Lancir wants us to work out a solution on our own. The Crown can't help us. They want us to talk our way out of this if we can. They're willing to cede land if we must to avoid a war. Whatever else, Elspeth wants to avoid a war."

            Esmelle nodded. "You might need to get in touch with them again."

            Savil, in a deep squat now, said, "Why?" in surprise.

            Esmelle grinned lopsidedly. "Because I found out that the Queen of Rethwellan is here."

            "The _Queen_?" cried Savil.

            Esmelle nodded. "Might want to keep your voice down. I don't know when we want to tell them we know."

            "What... how... but more importantly, _why_?"

            Esmelle shrugged. "I don't know. But I think we need to talk to her."

            Savil dropped to the floor and spread her legs, bending over the left one. "Prince Athornathan didn't want us to know. Or assumed we _did_ know."

            "Yes. One of his younger sibs is also here, a brother. What did she call him... Lirath. Lirathuaro." Esmelle winced. "I hate Rethwellan names."

            Savil snorted. "I doubt Athornathan will let us talk to her. He thinks we're dangerous."

            "That's why I said we need to talk to her, not to Athornathan. Since you're an empowered ambassador, by rights you _should_ be negotiating with the highest-ranked person, and that's the Queen."

            Savil stretched over her other leg, her forehead just touching her knee. "You're right. But since we're stuck in this surprisingly comfortable jail cell, the question is how?"

***

"How about a mental suggestion?" asked Esmelle. The next morning was dark and cold, and snow had been piling against the windows, making the room darker and darker as the day progressed. Tomorrow, there would be very little natural light at all.

            "It's one thing to use such on circuit, when Valdemaran citizens are withholding information from us," said Savil, in between spoonfuls of the cold porridge they'd been given by the guards, "and even then, care must be taken. Too much coercion, and we become tyrants. Putting mental suggestions on outkingdom royalty does not seem ethical."

            "But it's more like a knock on the door, isn't it?" asked Esmelle.

            Savil's eyebrow quirked and then she smiled. "Oh, I understand what you mean. In magecraft, a mental suggestion refers to a more... active takeover of someone's mind. A mental 'knock on the door', or a very subtle call, that is something else. However, such things can be dangerous or annoying for another person. In some cases, you can drive someone temporarily mad from 'knocks on the door' that they cannot comprehend."

            "You take this very seriously," said Esmelle with surprise.

            "Of course," said Savil, both brows raising as she looked closely at Esmelle. "If you had enough power to destroy someone's mind without breaking a sweat, wouldn't that give you pause?"

            Esmelle sat back in her chair, watching the fire. Her porridge was half-eaten, but the congealed mass was most unappealing. She imagined herself with such power, and it was a bit of stretch. Her Mindspeech barely let her talk to someone with strong Mindspeech, like Miravia. Her Farsight affected no one but herself. Since that analogy went nowhere, she thought instead of physical ability. She was fast enough with a sword to cut down an unarmed person, or to shoot them. "You're absolutely correct," she said. "It never occurred to me how much care you must have to take with your powers. No wonder rogue mages are so dangerous."

            "Well," said Savil with a smirk, "most of them aren't as powerful as I am."

            "Thank Astera," muttered Esmelle, and Savil laughed for a moment. Hers was a crow's laugh, but Esmelle smiled to hear it. "So," she said, "can you 'call' the Queen here, and then retract the call if it doesn't seem to work? This is an extreme situation, after all. We need to speak to her."

            Savil sighed and crossed her arms. "I don't want to be locked up here forever. I'm going to do it, and Kellan will help me keep an eye on her. Also help guide my mindmagic through the shield again. This shouldn't take more than twenty minutes." She placed her mostly-eaten porridge bowl on the ground and settled into a cross-legged position, hands in her lap.

            Esmelle, bored, paced the length of the sitting room. : _Miravia?_ :

            : _Mm. Yes, Chosen?_ : There was something oddly effulgent about Miravia's mindvoice. Esmelle knew that she'd distracted her Companion from thoughts that had been occupying her whole attention.

            : _What on earth were you thinking about?_ :

            Miravia's voice came with a heat, a mental blush. : _Nothing important._ :

            Esmelle groaned and leaned on the windowsill, craning her neck up to look over the piled snow. The landscape was thickly white. Snow whipped about in a fierce wind. The glass seemed to exhale bitter cold. : _Were you thinking about Kellan?_ : she asked.

            : _Do you disapprove?_ : demanded Miravia.

            : _Miravia..._ : Esmelle rolled her eyes. : _All I wanted to do was ask if you were comfortable in your stall._ :

            : _I don't want you to disapprove,_ : Miravia insisted.

            : _Miravia, when have I ever cared about your love life? All I care about is not being given details!_ :

            There was a pause, and then Miravia said, : _The stalls are heated and the stablehands treat us well enough. Like horses, but we're rather used to that._ : She sent Esmelle an impression of running across a field lightly dusted with snow, and then added, as an afterthought, bright blinding sunlight. : _I'd rather be travelling,_ : she said wistfully. : _I'm bored._ :

            : _Me too, love. Me too. You and Kellan keep yourselves entertained however you can. Savil and I will try and get the Queen's attention. I wonder why she's here._ :

            : _It seems rather like an exile,_ : Miravia said. : _And you said she didn't seem like she was happy about being here._ :

_:No indeed. She and her younger son, they both seemed put out with being here, and also with Athornathan. Frankly, that doesn't surprise me. He is a rather unpleasant young man.:_

Suddenly there was a loud rap on the door. Esmelle jumped in surprise, and Savil's eyes flew open. The knocking sounded again, and then the handle was rattled, and they heard loud muffled explanations.

            Esmelle and Savil scrambled towards the door, close enough to hear the commotion.

            "Who are you keeping in here, Athor? Tell me!" A low, commanding woman's voice. The Queen's.

            "Mother, please. Troublesome liars from Valdemar are none of your concern—"

            "Urthuanor, open this door at once. Athor, shut up. You should have told me about this right away."

            "That worked quickly!" Esmelle told Savil in a whisper.

            "That wasn't me," Savil said. "I was just working my way past the shield. Whatever tipped her off, it happened without my meddling."

            The latch clicked and the Heralds, smoothing down their tunics, stood at attention. The door swung open, revealing the Queen of Rethwellan in a grand crushed velvet gown of green and gold, with a small golden fillet on her black hair. Athor was glaring at her, but she wasn't paying him any attention. Lirath and Urthuanor behind them were scowling at Athor.

            Esmelle and Savil swept into full court bows, at the exact angle of a Herald greeting royalty.

            "Your Majesty?" said Esmelle. "I am Herald Esmelle, and this is Herald-Mage Savil Ashkevron."

            "A pleasure," said the Queen, holding up a hand without looking at Athor. His mouth, opening, snapped closed. Esmelle felt a malicious wisp of pleasure. In the back of her mind, she felt Miravia perk up and pay attention, looking out through her eyes. "As you have realized, I am Queen Tyrashana of Rethwellan. Had I known emissaries of Queen Elspeth were here, I would have handled this matter better than my foolish son. Please, find it in you to forgive Prince Athornathan: he is a fool, and it's just as well he's several older brothers to inherit the crown."

            "Mother!" cried Athor, an ugly blotchy flush rising in his cheeks.

            "It's true," sneered Lirath.

            "Boys," said Tyrashana. "Please," she said to the Heralds, "come with me to the Violet Sitting Room, where we can all sit, have mulled wine, and discuss terms. I expect there is a border dispute, and I will inform you why we are here, and why Athor has been rather more violent than necessary."

            The Violet Sitting Room was up the stairs, not far from Queen Tyrashana's rooms. It was decorated in light purples, whites, a hint of green. Violets were carved into much of the furniture, and the relatively new tapestries were all of joyful springtime scenes. A large fire filled the room with warmth, and there were big windows, that, being on the leeside of the house, were not near-covered in snow, and so let in the faint diluted light of the snowy afternoon.

            There were enough chairs and short sofas for everyone to sit comfortably. Guards stood at the door, but they looked at ease, and, to Esmelle's eye, a bit more relaxed.

            "First, you must know that I am not the most popular Queen in Rethwellan," said Tyrashana. "Insurgents have targeted me for assassination. The trouble is with some noble families and several merchant houses. I advised my husband, King Megrarthon, to take a certain course, and they found out. I was nearly killed while shopping; the King feared for my safety. As it happens, Athor is also in disgrace for being a layabout and a troublemaker—if you dare interject a single word, Athor, you will leave, you understand me?" Tyrashana's glare fair flattened the prince; he slouched further into his armchair.

            "So we were sent here to wait out the winter while my husband tries to soothe his nobles and prevent a civil war. The political climate in Petras is fearful. We worry our allies will begin to nibble on our toes while our nobles and merchants tear us up from within. My King was disturbed by Queen Elspeth's marriage to Iftel. I am sure you can understand our plight?"

            "Indeed," said Esmelle. "We are fully prepared to assuage such fears." She looked at Savil, but Savil nodded at her. It seemed Savil was perfectly willing to let Esmelle handle the talking. Esmelle continued, "You will be pleased to know that Valdemar highly values our Rethwellan allies. We have no intention of war-making—indeed, Queen Elspeth has every intention of ensuring peace wherever she can. Some of our nobles are beginning to call her 'The Peacemaker.' To that end, we are here to negotiate.

            "You see, there has been a mistake somewhere, whether on our end or yours. In the latest treaty, our records show the Rethwellan ceded these villages in the Comb to Valdemar..."

            Esmelle and Savil showed Queen Tyrashana the maps and treaties. Urthuanor once again verified their authenticity.

            "We can't leave here," the Queen said, troubled, her finger tapping her chin absentmindedly. "Even if it were safe, the passes are snowed in. It's a miracle that you're here at all, though the locals say the way into Valdemar is the safer."

            "We needed Savil's magic to get us here safely," Esmelle said, and Savil smiled modestly.

            "Still, you must see our plight," said Tyrashana passionately, spreading her hands. Lirath wrinkled his nose and threw a longing glance out of the nearest window. It was getting darker, and the howling wind was beginning to change direction, pressing against the window now, making it creak and shudder.

            "Of course we do," said Esmelle. She drew in a breath. "In fact, we are empowered to alter the treaty and forge a new one, if that is necessary to bring about peace." She looked at Savil, because Savil was the one who had contacted Lancir.

            Savil nodded regally, her chin high. "I think it is necessary, in light of, ah, the troubles against your person, that we redraw the map and cede the territory of Bell's Valley and Covey to Rethwellan, at least as a temporary measure while you are here. However, there is a consideration that must be brought up."

            Her tone suddenly became forbidding. Athor slouched further in his chair even as his mother drew herself up. Esmelle asked Miravia, : _Is Savil—_ :

            : _She's well within her rights, if she's saying what I think she is_ : Miravia reassured her.

            "The villagers of Covey and Bell's Valley are responsible for summoning us here to speak with you in the first place," Savil said. "They have been double-taxed, since Prince Athornathan came to exhort foodstuffs from them. Valdemar collects taxes near Sovvan, which, I understand, was a full fortnight before you arrived here."

            "That is correct," said Tyrashana hesitantly.

            "Regardless of who owns the territory, the fact is Valdemar does not wish the people to starve. A condition of this treaty _must_ be the return of foodstuffs and property to the people to assure they are well-fed through the winter."

            "Done," said Tyrashana instantly. "My boys are used to living with the amenities of court, and have neither the wits nor the manners to treat the local populace accordingly. Had I realized the result of their rides, I would have forbidden it. As it is, I will be supervising the return and management of the foodstuffs myself."

            "Mother, Father said I was to be in charge!" cried Athor.

            "As practice, and nominally only," Tyrashana said firmly. "Since you have mismanaged everything, I think I will take over. I will restore privileges to you when you have earned them."

            She shook her head and looked to the Heralds. "Please send my apologies to Queen Elspeth," she said. "Had I realized the villagers had been taxed by Valdemar already, I would have ... I would have done things differently. As it is, I am embarrassed by my son."

            "We understand," said Esmelle graciously, cutting off Savil, who looked to be holding a smart remark in her mouth.

            As the evening wore on, they altered the borders on one of the maps Savil had brought, and Urthuanor, who had the neatest handwriting, drew up a new treaty, which was signed by Queen Tyrashana and Savil.

***

They stayed out the duration of the blizzard in Queen Tyrashana's manse. The storm lasted half the week and then subsided. Foodcarts were packed and sent up the road to Covey, escorted by the Heralds and their recovered chirras. The chirras had found their way into the city centre before the blizzard had started, been recognized as Heraldic property, and had been taken care of at the inn stables. The weather grew warm for the next few days, and the snow melted all around them as they climbed into Covey.

            Mayor Galespie was overjoyed at the return of the food: salted meats, preserves and jams, hardy winter breads, and the like. She was less happy to find out that she was Rethwellan now.

            "We'll miss having Heralds through here, indeed we will," she told Esmelle and Savil soberly. "I can't say I'm happy with this, and we village folk having no say."

            "The treaty is a temporary thing," Savil reassured her. "When we get to Haven, the Rethwellan ambassador and the Queen will discuss it for months. By Sovvan next year, you may well have Heralds riding through here again."

            "I hope so," said Galespie with a sigh. "I suppose we'll have to do the whole rigamarole with petitioning the Queens of both countries now, if we want our say. Still, I'm glad to know we'll be fed through the winter."

            "If you have complaints," Esmelle said, "make sure to bring them to the Queen at the manse. Don't talk to the prince."

            "Thank you," said Galespie, but she was more polite now, and less kind.

            They rode out the next morning. The road was slippery with ice and packed with snow. Savil melted snow with her magic until she was exhausted, but the melting snow and ice was treacherous in its own way, being slippery. They camped on the mountain side, and when dawn came the view was as breathtaking as was the bitter cold wind.

            It took them twice as long to go down as it had going up, and they dismounted for much of it, taking care where they stepped. It was long and tiring, and by the time they had worked their way out of the foothills and into the snowy bowl of the Goldgrass Valley, Esmelle was so grateful she almost wept.

            For the first time in days, they mounted their Companions and rode at a brisk trot. Even the chirras seemed pleased to be able to go quickly, on the shovelled road that wound through the villages of the Goldgrass Valley.

            They arrived in Haven days later, exhausted and wet with melted snow—all of Haven was brown and grey with slush, and some trees had even put out experimental, and perhaps foolhardy, buds. It was a bit of a shock to Esmelle, who was mentally still in the frigid unforgiving winter of the Comb.

            They made their reports to Ysmir and Lancir, and then hauled themselves to the baths and had long warm soaks. Miravia reported, as Esmelle was trying not to fall asleep in her bath, that she and Kellan were being excellently and thoroughly well-groomed by appreciative stablehands. : _I love being a Companion_ : she sighed happily. Esmelle was too tired to respond.

***

The next evening Savil invited Esmelle and Andrel to dinner at a quiet, clean inn in Haven called the Holly and Oak. They had a private booth well partitioned with wooden sendlewood screens.

            "Honestly, I mostly did this because I need to apologize to both of you at once," said Savil. She sighed and poured them wine. Esmelle blinked, and Andrel cocked his head to the side. "I acted ... improperly before we left Haven," Savil said, mostly to Andrel. "I knew you hadn't, well, committed to me, but I treated you like we were exclusive lovers. That was unkind to both of you. Such jealousy was inappropriate."

            "Thank you," said Esmelle, who really was happy to hear Savil apologize.

            Andrel raised his glass up and smiled his friendly, earnest smile. "We all make mistakes," he said. "I'd really rather not commit to anyone," he added after a sip of wine.

            "Me neither," said Esmelle.   

            Savil laughed. "Life's too busy for a Herald or a Healer, hey?"

            They clinked glasses and drank.

            : _I'm glad that's resolved, to_ o: Esmelle told Miravia, settling into her seat as Andrel launched into a story of mishaps and miscommunications in the Healer's Collegium. : _I like them both and I'd rather not be at odds with them._ :

            : _That would be a problem_ : Miravia said absently.

            With a mental shout of horror, Esmelle yanked herself away from Miravia's mind. Andrel broke off mid-story to stare at her. Her feelings must have shown on her face. "What?" Andrel asked in confusion. "The student only needed sixteen stitches, it wasn't a death wound!"

            "Savil," said Esmelle as calmly as she could, "don't try talking to Kellan right now."

            Savil stared at her with wide-eyed confusion, then put down her glass. "Oh," she managed with equal parts fond amusement and distaste, "thank you for the warning."

            "You see," said Esmelle to Andrel, taking a big gulp of wine to fortify herself, "our Companions are in love."

            Andrel looked at both their faces and started to laugh.

 

 


End file.
